


american dream (sinner's redemption)

by reservoirgays



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, D/s undertones, Dom Rick, Light BDSM, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Slurs, Sub Daryl, mentions of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6990925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reservoirgays/pseuds/reservoirgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl’s life is split into two halves: before the dead started walking, and after the dead started walking. Or, alternatively, before Rick Grimes walked into his life and after Rick Grimes walked into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	american dream (sinner's redemption)

There’s something incredibly peaceful about the end of the world.

Before, in Daryl’s old life, he was afraid to give himself time to watch the sunsets. Merle’s voice echoed in his head every time he indulged in something that wasn’t drugs or hunting or drinking. He used to shut the group out at every soft moment, curl his fingers around the handle of his knife and shiver in his tent while they laughed together by the fire.

Daryl’s life is split into two halves: before the dead started walking, and after the dead started walking. Or, alternatively, before Rick Grimes walked into his life and after Rick Grimes walked into his life.

The second week they’re in the prison, Daryl finally sits down on the lookout tower and watches the sun melt into the horizon. Thinks about how he’ll never see Merle again; never again have anyone tell him that he’s wrong for _feeling_. He thinks about how the sun will continue to rise and set daily even if every single person on earth dies bloody and alone.

He pulls a cigarette out of the crushed up pack that he found tucked under some kid’s bed at a house in the suburbs, probably under there so that they were hidden from his parents. Things like that don’t matter anymore. Laws, rules, government- they’re all vestigial.

He sparks up and kicks his feet out to dangle over the edge of the tower, the rusted metal platform pushing comfortably against the backs of his knees. A couple of walkers appear at the mouth of the dense forest before wandering in the other direction.

Daryl never had a religion. There was always the idea of _God_ living somewhere in his head before all this happened, but you live like this and you begin to understand: there is no help. No higher power. You have to clot your own blood, lick your own wounds. Pick yourself up off the floor. If there is religion anymore, it exists in the belief that Rick will pull him through this hell. The written word is the scars they have, the things that they survive together.

When Daryl met Rick, he learned how to feel again. But he also forgot how to _stop_ feeling. The worst of Rick’s pain burns through Daryl’s bones, sits heavy on his ribcage whenever they bump shoulders or exchange eye contact. He watches Rick break down guns, feels heat rushing under his skin when Rick’s steady fingers curl over the silver barrel. Sees the heaviness in his shoulders, the guilt in his posture. It’s like there’s a live wire hooked up to Daryl’s nerves, the other end of it crammed in Rick’s vein like an IV. He wants to take away all the shame that Rick feels and shove it in his pocket, keep it hidden away from him forever.

These are the things that he can never say out loud.

The cherry on Daryl’s cigarette burns out, and he crushes it beneath his palm.

 

 

When Tomas throws the walker on Rick, Daryl sees red.

Every primal part of him _itches_ to pull the trigger and sink an arrow into Tomas’ skull, hear it crunch through his brain matter for putting Rick in danger like that. But the better part of him knows that he could never do something without Rick giving the command for it first. He watches them carefully, finger hovering over the trigger, just _waiting_ for that fucker to make a move on Rick. He’ll be dead before he hits the ground, Daryl will make sure of it.

Tomas tries to talk his way out of it and it fans the fire in Daryl’s belly, adrenaline thrumming through his veins until Rick jams his blade in the guy’s skull unexpectedly. Holy hell.

That night in his cell Daryl jerks off desperate and quick, knuckles the whole sensitive spine of his dick and thinks about Rick pressing his weight against his ribs, one hand pushing heavily against Daryl’s throat, cutting off his air. Thinks about Rick’s fingers making bruises on his neck, _claiming_ him. He shoves his fist in his mouth and comes all over his hand and belly faster than he ever has before.

 

 

“We’ve gotta make a supply run,” Rick is saying, eyes trained on the walkers gathering at the fence.

The air is starting to cool down with the promise of autumn, the leaves on the ground browning around the edges. They have a decent amount of supplies, but things are bound to get worse when winter comes.

“Sounds good.” Daryl says, shoveling oatmeal into his mouth.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Rick teases.

“That’s what he said.”

“Is it?” Rick raises his eyebrows in amusement.

Daryl gets up and nudges Rick’s shoulder with his own, real ‘ _buddy buddy_ ,’ keeping it friendly. “Course. I’ll come with you. Right now?”

Rick scratches his chin in thought. “Nah. Let’s see if anyone else wants to go. You go ahead and grab a shower.”

Daryl puts his hand to his chest, feigning offense. “You tryin’ to say something about the way I smell?”

Rick laughs wholeheartedly, tips his head back and leans his elbow on Daryl’s shoulder. Daryl can hear his own heart pounding in his chest. Morning dew is beading up on the blades of grass outside the first fence, the weight of water causing them to bend. Rick’s elbow is a comfortable, warm weight digging into his shoulder.

 _This is what it would be like always,_ Daryl thinks, _if we had more time_.

“You bet I am.” Rick punches Daryl’s shoulder affectionately. “C’mon.”

 

 

No one wants to come with them except Glenn.

Everyone else comes up with some kind of excuse, but the underlying reason is probably because it’s just too damn early for most people.

He starts to load his gear onto his bike, but Rick grabs his bow out of his hands, effectively stopping him.

“No way,” Rick says seriously, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous for you to take the bike when it’s just the three of us. You’re coming with us in the car.”

Daryl huffs. “Fine. But I’m drivin.’ No arguments.”

Rick smirks and presses the keys into his palm.

 

 

Daryl was starting to go stir-crazy staying at the prison all day, so the run is a pleasant interlude in their daily routine. He lets his left arm hang out the window while he drives, fingers tapping against the side of the car. The sun beats down heavy and hot all around them, the outside of the car almost unbearably warm where Daryl has his arm pressed up against it. The longer they drive the more his jeans stick uncomfortably to his thighs, the black seat soaking up the worst of the sun’s heat and making him sweat like crazy.

“Left up here,” Rick says, nodding his head at the fork in the road. His shirt is damp with sweat, the fabric tight against the muscles of his chest. He has one arm on the middle console of the car and the other arm resting against the open window. Daryl swallows thickly and looks away.

He shifts in his seat, bunching his jeans up a little to cool off his ankles. “What’s up there?”

“7-Eleven.” Rick pushes some of the sweat-soaked strands of hair off his forehead. “It looks like it hasn’t been touched.”

Daryl rounds the bend. There’s a few stores in front of them now, including a 7-Eleven like Rick promised.

“Are we there yet?” Glenn calls from where he’s laying across the back seat of the car.

Rick chuckles. “See for yourself.”

Daryl hears Glenn sit up in the back seat and stretch his muscles. “Hell yeah. You think the slurpee machine still works?”

 

There’s only a few walkers inside the building, but they have to break the window just to get in because there’s something jammed up against the other side of the doors. When they climb in, they get an eyeful of what it is.

“Holy fuck,” Glenn says, reeling back when he steps through the window after Daryl clears out the walkers.

There are three bodies slumped against the front door, their guts hanging wetly out of their torn-up flesh, limbs glued together with cakey, dried blood. The smell is almost unbearable.

“Looks like they didn’t make it out fast enough,” Rick says. He almost sounds sad.

“Must’ve been not too long ago. The walkers would have picked ‘em clean otherwise.”

“Let’s just get what we need and go,” Glenn says, already heading toward the shelves.

Daryl sweeps through the shelves with his eyes first before heading to the fridges in the back. There’s some Gatorade and Red Bull left in there that Daryl almost goes for, but he thinks better of it. It would be a waste of space in the car. He takes the water bottles that were left there and puts them on top of the shelf behind him to come back for later. He grabs whatever looks good from the shelves plus a few requests from the people back at the prison if he can find them.

“Found some chocolate,” Rick says, holding up a Hershey’s bar triumphantly.

“Nice, but I win.” Glenn holds up two six packs of beer from the other side of the store.

“Isn’t that kind of a waste of space?” Daryl teases, but the thought of actually being able to crack open a beer really excites him.

“Of course not.”

Daryl snorts. “I’m gonna take a piss. Try to find some beef jerky.”

There’s always a part of him that feels out of control when he isn’t close to Rick; when he doesn’t have anyone to make his decisions for him. It gets so bad that Daryl sometimes feels like he has to ask Rick permission to go to the bathroom, like he isn’t allowed to unless Rick gives him the okay. He finds himself holding back more and more from saying stupid shit like “ _mind if I have a smoke_?” Or, “ _is it okay if I hit the hay_?” As if Rick wouldn’t think he was completely bat-shit crazy for asking. It’s infuriating, mostly because Daryl never felt compelled to ask anyone for permission to do anything his entire life. _Shoot first, ask questions later_ , like Merle always said.

But Rick has him questioning his every move, wondering if he’ll approve of it. It’s fucking depraved, totally out of character for him, and he hopes to god Rick won’t pick up on it.

The bathroom door is locked. Daryl tries kicking it open, tries throwing all his weight against it, but the lock won’t budge. He almost comes out to tell Rick that he’s going out back to take a piss, but he realizes at the last second how weird that would be.

He walks through the back of the building and finds the other entrance, the one that was probably used for moving boxes and leaving on smoke breaks in the old world. He‘s about to elbow the door open when something falls right against the back of his head, scrapes down the back of his neck, _hard_ , and everything goes dark.

 

 

“…can’t keep going out with just a few of us at a time. That’s how we lose people. He’s lucky that we heard it fall or he probably would have gotten-“

“Don’t, Glenn. The situation’s under control.”

“What the hell?” Daryl mumbles, opening his eyes a little. The room is so fucking _bright_. Someone makes a shocked sound above him, and he hears them drop to a kneel, cup their hand around his chin to tilt his head up.

“Quit it,” he says, halfheartedly. “m’fine.”

“The hell you are.” Rick’s voice. Everything is blurring together. “Help me get him to the car. Daryl, hey. Do you know who I am?”

Daryl laughs, or at least tries to. “The president of the United States.” His eyes are fully open now, and he sees Rick give him the kind of look you would give a child that isn’t behaving.

“Seriously.”

“I _am_ serious, officer Grimes.”

Rick smiles, shakes his head incredulously. “Good. C’mon.”

He grips Daryl’s ankles and tugs him forward, gently, so that Glenn can reach under his armpits and haul him upwards. Rick holds him by the backs of his thighs and they carry him the short walk to the car.

“Feel like a fuckin’ train hit me,” he says, leaning heavily against the side of the car once they get him there. He looks up at Rick. “What happened?”

Rick squints at him against the glare of the sun, rubs the back of his hand across his forehead. “A walker happened. It must have knocked that big, metal shelf on top of you when it was trying to get you. The shelf blocked it from tearing you up until we got there.”

“Jesus.” Daryl feels dizzy and overheated, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He presses his palm against the back of his head and the pain jolts right through him, slicing white-hot all the way down his spine.

“We’ll have Hershel look at it.” Rick wraps his fingers gently around Daryl’s wrist and pulls it away from the back of his head. “Don’t touch it.”

Daryl shivers and goes stock-still, Rick’s tone making him feel even dizzier.

Glenn looks uneasy, his eyes darting between the two of them before he speaks. “I’m gonna get the supplies we left in the store.”

“Be careful,” Rick says, fingers still loose around Daryl’s wrist.

The sound of Glenn’s footsteps fades into the distance. “C’mon,” Rick says. He opens the car door and drops Daryl’s hand. “Lie down in the back.”

Feeling too woozy to argue, Daryl pushes himself back on his forearms until he’s leaning against the inside of the other car door, feet kicked out in front of him.

Rick stands there with his hands stuffed in his pockets, watching Daryl settle himself in the backseat.

“You want me to sit back there with you? Or Glenn?”

“No,” Daryl protests lazily, crossing his arms over his stomach. “m’fine. Not a kid.”

Rick snorts indignantly. “Oookay,” he says, long and drawn out, shutting the back door of the car.

Daryl listens to him move around the car and hop in the driver’s side, take his gun out of the holster and set it on the dashboard.

“Should’ve told you,” he says, realizing he probably shouldn’t talk because he’s afraid of what he might say, but he’s feeling woozy as hell, losing his filter.

“What?” Rick says softly, coaxing.

“Should’ve told you where I was going. I forgot to ask. I was supposed to ask you…”

“Hey,” Rick says, hooking his fingers over Daryl’s knee and shaking him gently. “Keep your eyes open, alright?”

His leg feels like it’s being shocked with an electric current where Rick is touching it.

He opens his eyes. Rick is looking at him strangely, his head cocked like he’s trying to figure Daryl out. Daryl shifts lower, letting Rick’s hand fall onto his lower thigh. Rick licks his lips, pauses.

“Okay,” Daryl says.

Rick stretches his hand out tentatively, scratches his nails over the fabric of Daryl’s jeans. Daryl holds his breath.

The trunk opens suddenly and they both jump, Rick jerking away from Daryl’s body like he’s on fire.

“I got the rest of the food,” Glenn says, voice strained from carrying all the supplies, “no medicine, though. Obviously. It’s a 7-Eleven.” He slams the trunk shut and gets in the passenger seat. “You okay, Daryl?” He asks, craning his neck to look at him in the backseat.

Daryl hums. “Head hurts like a bitch.”

“We’ll skip going anywhere else today,” Rick says, starting the car. We should have enough for now.”

Daryl feels like his entire body is floating, like he needs something to push him down, keep him against the earth. His skin is buzzing with that _barely touched_ sensation, like his center of gravity got switched over to Rick. He scrubs his palms over his bent knees hastily, trying to get rid of the feeling. In his head, Merle’s voice says: ‘ _queer._ ’ He ignores it.

 

 

“Heard you gave the boys quite a scare.”

“I guess.”

The damp cloth feels amazing against the back of his head. Daryl imagines it sucking all the pooled blood and pain right out of him, all of it soaking into the cloth and shrinking the knot on his head where the shelf hit. Clearly, he hit his head a little too hard.

“Turn on your side,” Hershel says, pulling Daryl’s arm gently. He complies, propping himself up with his right elbow planted firmly on the prison cot. “You don’t have a concussion, so that’s good. And if you were hemorrhaging, we would have known by now. Just keep that cloth against the bump for a few hours to help with the swelling. You should be back in commission tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Hershel,” Rick says from the doorway. Whoa. When did he get there? Daryl must have said that out loud, because Rick chuckles at him. “Just thought I would check on you.”

Hershel stands up and moves past Rick, claps him on the back before moving out of the room. “Watch his pulse,” he says before he closes the door. Rick nods.

“Don’t need no babysitter,” Daryl says, flipping onto his back again.

“Then you’re in luck.” Rick takes a seat in the chair next to the cot. “Because that’s not what I’m here for.”

Rick looks intimidating from this angle, the way he’s hovering over Daryl, cornering him.

“Well, say your piece. I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stay awake.”

Rick’s firm expression falters, his hands rubbing over his thighs while he searches for his words.

“Daryl, do I…” he trails off, looking unsure.

Daryl sits up on his elbow again, facing Rick, prompting him to continue.

Rick sits forward in the chair. “Do I…make you feel like you can’t make decisions?”

Daryl quirks an eyebrow at Rick, internally praying this isn’t going where he thinks it’s going.

“I mean, what you said before. In the car. You said you thought you needed to ask me for permission. Do I really make you feel that way?”

So Rick had picked up on that. Fuck. It makes sense, now that Daryl thinks about it, that Rick would take what Daryl said personally. It’s part of his personality, the way he’s deadly afraid of turning into someone like Shane, afraid of making Daryl feel like he’s worth less than him.

“Nah. It ain’t like that.”

“Then what did you mean?” Rick asks quietly. Daryl rubs his knuckles against his eyes, pretending like he suddenly gets extremely tired to avoid answering. Rick scoots the chair closer to the cot and leans against the back of it. He stretches his arm out and presses two fingers against Daryl’s inner wrist.

“Your heart is racing. Should I get Hershel?” His voice is low, too damn close to being sensual, and you could cut through the tension in the air with a butter knife.

Daryl looks up at Rick, straining to keep his expression completely blank. “Can I sleep?” It sounds like a taunt, the way he says it. He doesn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it’s probably for the best.

Rick holds his eye contact with Daryl for a few more seconds and then drops his gaze, runs his fingers through his own hair to get it out of his eyes. “Yeah. I’ll have Beth check on you later.” He looks like he’s caught between confusion and disappointment. Daryl can relate.

 

 

When Daryl wakes up, it feels like morning. The air is stale and cold, and he can hear people murmuring amongst themselves a distance outside his cell. Someone pulled his shoes and socks off for him, set them neatly next to the cot. The next thing he becomes aware of is the throbbing ache in his skull and the scratchy, dried up cloth trapped between the back of his head and the pillow. He pulls it out and tosses it, walks his fingers across the place where the shelf hit. There’s still a bump there, and definitely some dried blood, but he imagines Rick saying ‘ _don’t pick at it,_ ’ and drops his hand.

 

 

“You head around back,” Rick whispers, his hands steady on the axe, “and I’ll take the ones in the front. Now when you get back there, you stay. Understand? I need to know where you are so I don’t have to go in there screamin’ and hollerin’ to try and find you. This is risky enough as is.”

Daryl nods, unsheathes his blade from its place in his belt loop. “Got it.”

Rick grips Daryl’s shoulder and makes eye contact, just to ground him, then lifts three fingers and counts down silently. When he gets to one, Daryl bolts, darting around the walkers gathered at the front of the warehouse and runs to the very back. The rusty door is easy to bust open, but not so easy to keep closed once he’s inside. The walkers are pounding on the door incessantly, and Daryl has to lean all his weight against it to keep the door shut.

To make matters worse, he hears footsteps coming from in front of him. He thinks it’s Rick at first, but then he hears the drag in their step and knows he’s knee-deep in a pile of shit. He going to have to wait until the walkers are right up in his face to kill them because the only weapon he has is his knife, and it’s darker than hell.

He uses all of his strength to shove back against the door, and it miraculously clicks shut. He has the option of making a run for it, trying to find a place to hide in the warehouse away from all the noise at the back door, but Rick told him to stay put and Daryl just _isn’t capable_ of going against a direct order from him.

The noise brings a few of the geeks in his direction and he takes them out one by one, keeping his back pressed against the door for grounding. It’s frightening because there’s no light and he can’t see how many of them he’s going to have to deal with, so he has to just stay here and hope it doesn’t get too saturated.

Another two appear in front of him and he kicks one in the stomach to deal with later, kills the other one, and then takes the first one out when it stumbles back up. Once again, he entertains the idea of taking off and trying to hide, but it’s nearly pitch black in the building and Rick _told him_ to stay.

For a moment, the building is quiet. The walkers at the door have mostly lost interest, and there’s nothing but the sound of Daryl’s breathing. He’s about to move away from the door when a walker lunges out of fucking nowhere and grabs him, knocking his blade out of his hand in the process. Daryl kicks it away but then there’s _another one_ and he can’t reach for his knife, doesn’t even know where it is, and it’s about to bite down on his arm-

Two gunshots ring out, echoing like fireworks in the empty warehouse. The walkers on the other side of the door start pounding on it again, attracted by the noise.

“Jesus,” he says, reaching blindly for his knife, “too close for comfort.”

Rick says nothing.

Daryl slides his blade back into its handle. “Rick.”

He steps closer and Rick is _glaring_ at him. “Let’s go.” He turns his back on Daryl and they get what they need from the warehouse, walk back to the car in silence.

 

 

“Why didn’t you hide?” Rick asks later, in the car. Daryl takes his feet off the dash, shifts in his seat until he’s sitting up. He shrugs, making sure Rick is looking at him.

Rick grits his teeth, visibly ticked off. “You could have gotten killed.” Daryl shrugs again.

Rick turns his head back to the road in front of him.

 

 

“Because you told me not to,” Daryl says, once they park the car within the fences of the prison. He gets out before Rick can say anything.

 

 

Daryl has watch that night. He doesn’t mind losing sleep, enjoys the safety of the watchtower and the stillness of the dark. He still has a few minutes before he’s taking over Carol’s shift, so he walks the length of the fences, picking the weeds he finds tucked in the grass just to kill time. He lets his mind wander back to the bodies in the 7-Eleven. Picks a particularly deep-rooted weed and thinks about the rot hanging off their bones, the cloudiness of their dead eyes. Thinks about their torn up clothing and wonders if, when they were buying the clothes, they ever considered the possibility that they would die in them.

A hand grips his shoulder suddenly and he jumps about twenty feet, backs right up against the chain-link fence in fear.

“Fucking _Christ_ , Rick. Don’t do that.”

“I understand,” Rick says, curling his hand around Daryl’s throat, getting right up in his face, and Daryl chokes in surprise. “I thought you were just itching to get yourself killed, but I _get it_ now.”

“Rick, what-“

“It’s not that you think you can’t have control. It’s that you don’t _want_ it.”

Daryl remains frozen on the spot which is apparently enough confirmation for Rick, who presses his thumb right against Daryl’s larynx with enough force to cut off his air a little bit.

“Say it,” he says, breath too-hot against Daryl’s cheek.

And it’s…too much.

He swallows. “I’ve got watch,” he says dumbly, feeling like he’ll fall apart if he says anything else. Rick pulls back like he didn’t expect Daryl to say that, but doesn’t drop his hand. Daryl wants to melt into it, wants to push his hips forward and see if Rick is as affected by this as he is or if he’s just experimenting, but Merle’s voice in his head says: ‘ _pathetic faggot_.’

“Rick, please, I-I can’t-“

Rick drops his hand and backs off. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice dripping with uncertainty, “I didn’t mean to…” he trails off.

Daryl ducks out and leaves.

 

 

When Daryl gets off watch, he dreams about the dead bodies in 7-Eleven. About what they were like when they were alive and happy and didn’t know they would be dead in a few months.

He gets up, thinks _fuck it_ , and walks over to Rick’s cell before anyone else wakes up. Rick is already awake when he gets there, sitting on the edge of his mattress. He raises his eyebrows in surprise when he sees Daryl.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks tentatively, quietly, like he’s afraid he’ll scare Daryl away. Daryl nods. Rick hums, pushes himself up to stand. There’s a long, drawn-out pause where neither of them says anything, and then Rick says, “ _I’m sorry about-“_ at the same time Daryl says “ _Can I-_ “

They both stop. “Go ahead,” Rick says.

“Um,” Daryl says, his confidence slowly leaving him. “Can I take a shower?”

Rick swallows, his eyes wide. “Huh?”

Daryl can feel a blush creeping up his cheeks. “I wanted to take a shower. Is that okay?”

Rick steps closer to him. “Yeah, Daryl, that’s- of course you can.”

Daryl doesn’t drop eye contact. “Tell me,” he says quietly.

Rick sucks in a breath, his pupils blown up huge. _He definitely likes this_ , Daryl notes. Rick’s composure only falters for a second before he stands up straighter, giving the illusion that he’s much taller than Daryl. “Go take a shower,” he says, voice commanding but quiet, not wanting to wake the others. “Right now. You’re covered in dirt.”

Daryl nods, shuddering unintentionally. “Okay,” he says, feeling like he’s being turned inside out. “Okay.”

He turns on his heel and walks to the showers.

When he gets there he strips down naked, turns the shower on, and gets his hand on his dick right when he steps under the water. He feels dirty, like he’s thinking about Rick in a way that’s totally wrong, but more than anything he feels guilty because _Rick didn’t give him permission to do this_. He strokes himself slow and lazy, drags his hand up the length of his dick and thinks about Rick telling him where to stand, when to eat, _when to speak_. When he thinks about that last one, his stomach flips. Rick standing in front of him at all times, only allowing him to speak when he’s addressed. Rick making him wait to ask for something as long as he likes, Rick grabbing Daryl’s hair and pulling when he doesn’t listen-

Daryl almost falls over when he comes, has to lean one hand against the tile and breathe for a minute before he can turn the water off.

 

 

When Daryl gets back to his cell, there’s a shirt, jeans, and a pair of boots placed carefully on his bed. The jeans and boots are definitely his, but the shirt is unmistakably Rick’s shirt. Daryl has seen him wear it a bunch of times. To anyone else it probably just looks like a plain white t-shirt, but Daryl recognizes it by the bloodstain on the right sleeve.

The clothes are lying there innocently enough, but he knows it’s a challenge- he could stay in the clothes he’s already wearing or he could put on the clothes that Rick picked out for him. It’s risky, someone could recognize Rick’s shirt, but the thought of wearing the outfit that Rick wants him to wear makes him feel like he’s floating.

He puts them on.

 

Daryl sneaks around the prison for a while, afraid of the strength of Rick’s reaction. He feels like a string ready to snap, like someone calling his name would make him fall over.

When he finally decides to come back inside, everyone is eating breakfast. Rick isn’t there.

“You look anxious. Everything okay?” Carol observes, as she passes him a bowl of oatmeal.

“Fine,” he lies. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

She nods. “No problem.”

He suddenly starts to panic. Maybe this was a bad idea. Everyone is sitting right here, ready to observe something that should really be kept private. Maybe Rick realized that, and that’s why he’s not at breakfast.

He’s walking over to sit next to Glenn and Maggie when there’s suddenly a loud crash behind him. He whips around, hand gripping the handle of his knife, but it’s just Rick, standing there with splattered oatmeal and broken glass from the bowl at his feet. And he’s staring right at Daryl.

Actually, ‘staring,’ isn’t the right word. He’s looking at him like a starving man would look at a prime rib.

Everyone goes dead quiet. Daryl tries to look inconspicuous, moves himself out of the line of Rick’s gaze and looks away.

“Rick,” Hershel says carefully, “you alright?”

Rick jolts like he’s been shocked, tears his gaze away from Daryl. “Yeah, I uh…I thought I saw something.” He forces out a laugh, pushes some of the broken glass with his foot. “I’ll clean it up. Sorry for scaring everyone.”

He glances at Daryl one more time before bending down and picking up the pieces. Daryl eats the rest of his oatmeal in his cell.

 

Rick doesn’t say anything to him for the rest of the day. In fact, he doesn’t even _look_ at him for the rest of the day. Daryl is stuck feeling like he did something wrong, like he misunderstood what Rick wanted from him. But still, he doesn’t change his clothes.

He takes watch for a few hours, the midday sun cooking him like an egg in a frying pan. As much as a winter without heat is going to hurt, it has to be better than this. The metal grating on the watchtower marks up the backs of his bare calves under where he has his jeans pushed up to his knees, criss-crossing lines that feel like they’ve been branded into his skin. He knows what burning flesh smells like, and it’s not this, but it doesn’t change the fact that he _feels_ like his skin is burning off under the Georgia sun.

“Daryl!” Someone calls from the bottom of the tower. He pushes himself to a stand and leans over the railing. It’s Maggie.

“Yeah?”

“Me and Glenn are gonna take watch! You go ahead and get some rest, it’s late!”

He smirks. When Maggie and Glenn ‘take watch,’ they never actually ‘watch’ anything. But it’s cute, the way they think it’s a big secret.

“Okay!” He yells.

 

Daryl goes to leave when they get to the top of the tower, but Glenn pulls him aside.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Daryl shrugs. “Sure.”

Maggie picks up her rifle and sits on the other side of the tower, out of their earshot. “Do you think something is up with Rick?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, like…I don’t know.” Glenn gestures vaguely. “He’s acting weird.”

Daryl hums, playing stupid. “I’ll talk to him tonight. But I’m sure he’s fine.”

Glenn nods. “Okay, yeah. You’re right. If anything was wrong, you would be the one he would tell.”

Daryl quirks an eyebrow. “How do you figure?”

“Well, he trusts you the most.” Glenn says it as if he’s saying ‘ _duh_ ,’ as if Daryl should know that as fact already.

He nods and turns away.

 

Daryl’s about to turn in. He takes off his boots and socks, sets them on the floor at the end of his cot. Disappointment sinks heavy into his bones, and he reaches up to pull his shirt off.

“Daryl.”

He jumps and turns around. Rick is standing there looking like he’s about to implode.

“Can I come in?” His voice is shaking a little, like he’s trying really hard to hold back. Daryl nods, steps aside to make room for him.

Rick looks like he’s fighting with himself for a few seconds before he steps forward, grips the bottom of Daryl’s shirt in his fist, and says, “You wore it.” Daryl nods dumbly, not knowing what to say.

“I was going to talk to you about it first. I meant to catch you after your shower and ask if this was what you wanted, but-“ Rick steps closer, lowering his voice, “when I came back, you were gone. And then you were just _wearin’_ it. Without me even asking you to. Is that what you want, Daryl? Want me to make all your decisions for you? Is that what you thought about while you were in the shower?”

Daryl whimpers, looking up at Rick through half-lidded eyes.

“Tell me,” Rick says. “C’mon.”

Daryl feels like he’s about to unravel. “Yeah,” he says, voice dripping in depravity.

Rick groans, presses his forehead against Daryl’s. “How long you been thinkin’ about this, huh?” He guides Daryl backwards until his back is against the wall. “How many times did you come near getting yourself killed when you should have just asked me what to do?”

“Too long,” Daryl says, breathless, “and too many.”

Rick holds Daryl’s chin in the curve of his hand, the other hand wrapped gently around his throat. Not choking, not pressing, just _there_ , both of his hands shaking against Daryl’s skin.

Daryl licks his lips. “Rick.”

Rick moves, crushes their lips together forcefully, hooks his index finger in Daryl’s belt loop and tugs. Daryl makes a little surprised noise against his lips and Rick pulls back, licks into his mouth more gently this time, less rushed.

“Been wantin’ this,” he confesses, mouthing wetly against Daryl’s neck, “wasn’t sure if you did, too.”

Daryl groans in response, tugs at the hair at the back of Rick’s neck to try to get him closer.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Mark me up,” Daryl says, not thinking.

Rick pulls back and drops his head against his chest, takes a huge breath like he’s trying really hard to avoid doing that. “You know I can’t do that,” he says, looking up at Daryl with blown pupils.

“Then let me-“ Daryl starts, but he’s too embarrassed to say the rest, so he just flips their positions so that Rick is against the wall and drops to his knees in front of him.

Rick sucks in a breath. “Daryl, you don’t have to-“

“Shut up.” He tugs Rick’s jeans off his hips and sits back on his heels.

Rick smirks, tangles his fingers in Daryl’s hair. “Thought I was the one supposed to be shutting people up around here.”

“Then do it.”

Rick pulls Daryl’s head forward, makes him press his face right up against his dick through his boxers. Daryl sighs, gets his mouth against the underside of it and exhales hot breath right on the spot where it’s damp near the tip. Rick lets his head fall back against the brick and pushes his hips forwards, his cock jumping against Daryl’s tongue.

He goes to pull his boxers down but Rick pulls Daryl’s hair, says, “No touching.” Daryl sits back obediently and nods, eager to please. He watches as Rick shucks them down below his thighs, his thick, hard cock smacking against his belly. He grips himself in one hand and pulls Daryl forward with the other, runs the smooth tip of it against his bottom lip.

“You want it?” He asks, voice low and even.

“Rick…” Even through the haze of pleasure, finally getting what he wants, Daryl still feels uncomfortable asking for it out loud.

“It’s okay. I wanna hear you say it.”

Daryl closes his eyes. “I want it. Please.”

“Want what?” His voice is almost a whisper now.

Daryl takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, looks up at Rick from under his eyelashes. “Wanna suck you off. Please, I’ll-“

Rick groans and cants his hips forward, his cock sliding wetly against Daryl’s cheek. Daryl turns his head and pushes his tongue against the underside of Rick’s cock, licks him all the way from root to tip.

“Should tie your hands behind your back,” Rick grunts, pressing his palm against the back of Daryl’s neck, Daryl’s tongue flat and heavy against the crown of his dick. “Would you want that?”

Instead of answering verbally, Daryl slides Rick’s cock into his mouth nice and slow, lets Rick feel his whole tongue hug up against the underside, wet and tight.

It feels so fucking good, so thick and blood-heavy on his tongue that he goes until it’s touching the start of his throat and his nose is buried right in Rick’s groin.

“Oh fuck,” Rick chokes out. His hand moves back up to tangle in Daryl’s hair. Daryl chokes himself on it a little bit, lets his throat close over Rick’s cock just to test how it feels, and Rick is suddenly coming without warning, hot and thick down Daryl’s throat. He moans in surprise and swallows it all, takes pleasure in the little ‘ _hmm_ ’ noises Rick is making above him.

After he gets him through the aftershocks, he pulls off and sits back on his heels.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Rick says, panting, “I don’t think I’ve ever come that fast in my life. Like a fuckin’ teenager or something. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.” He puts his hand out to help Daryl up and Daryl takes it.

“Don’t have to warn me.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, winces when his knees pop as he stands. “I don’t need a warning.”

Rick shudders. “Oh. Here, let me…” He gestures vaguely toward Daryl’s junk but Daryl shakes his head, blushing.

“I already, um. Yeah.”

Rick’s eyes go as wide as saucers. “You- just from that?” He looks down and notices the wet spot on the front of Daryl’s jeans. “You really like that, huh?” Daryl shrugs.

Rick _hmms_ and pulls him forward by the t-shirt again, fits his hand around Daryl’s chin and presses their lips together slow and sensual. When he pulls back, he says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

His fingers trail against Daryl’s cheek, tracing the curve of his jaw and running along his bottom lip like he’s trying to memorize it for later. “I wanna do this,” he says, eyebrows furrowed, “believe me, I do. But it’s new to me. And I need you to tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

Daryl huffs. “I ain’t made of porcelain. You don’t have to be afraid you’re gonna break me.”

Rick looks down and chuckles, nodding at the ground. “I know that. Just…promise me. If you say stop, I’ll stop.”

“Promise,” Daryl says, quietly. This moment feels too quiet, too intimate, so he pulls Rick forward and crushes their lips together again. Rick hums against his mouth and tightens his grip on Daryl’s jaw, pushes him back gently.

He kisses him softly on the corner of his mouth. “Get some sleep.”

 

 

When the prison falls, it goes down quick and violent. It’s all quiet and calm until everything goes to hell all at once. There’s no time to think when Daryl grabs Beth and takes off running. One minute Rick is there, and then he’s gone from Daryl’s life, probably forever.

 _It’s what you deserve_ , Merle’s voice snarls in his head, later that night when he’s lying in a pile of dead leaves. _Fags don’t get happy endings_.

Daryl puts his cigarette out on the soft skin between his thumb and index finger. It feels right.

 

 

The Claimers are horrible, horrible people, but in a way, it’s the funniest thing that has ever happened to Daryl in his life. He’s never considered himself much of an actor, but _shoot_ , he is definitely going for an Oscar on this performance. Pretending to be someone that gives orders rather than taking them is so out of character for him that he has to choose every single word he says in front of them.

The prison is gone, his family and Rick are gone, and losing Beth was his fault. He wakes up every morning feeling like a knife is twisting through his guts, and it’s not just the hunger. It’s the emptiness, the pure, unadulterated sorrow that he feels for the first time in his life. Merle was blood, but he wasn’t family. A few years ago, Daryl would have spit at anyone that said that to him, but now it’s clear. His real family was the Atlanta crew, and they’re gone. Carol is gone, Glenn is gone, Maggie, _Rick_ -

He stops his train of thought, feeling in danger of crying. It repeats like a broken record in his head every day when he’s out on the road with the claimers: _gone, gone, everyone is gone forever._ It’s worse than any physical pain.

 

 

When the whispers first start amongst the group, Daryl doesn’t think much of it. He’s too numb to care. _We’re looking for this guy,_ they would say, _he killed our buddy._ Then they eventually became, _we’ve got eyes on him. He’s with a couple others, but we can take them, too._

Another poor sonofabitch that crossed them the wrong way, and Daryl won’t be able to do a damn thing about it. When Joe tells him that they’re making their movie tonight after dark, Daryl can’t do anything else besides nod his head and comply. He gets an arrow ready in his bow when they head out. He’s going to avoid killing anyone at all costs, but push comes to shove, well. Self-preservation is necessary.

 

 

When night falls, they head out. The trees bend threateningly over the road, looming over them like crooked, wooden bones. In this moment, Daryl feels like a teenager again- when he would sneak out with Merle and a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the night and feel powerful and invincible walking in the middle of the empty road. Now he just feels incredibly small.

“They should be just through this clearing here,” Joe says, putting his hand on Daryl’s chest to make him stand still. “It’s where they’ve been the past couple of days. You hang back while we take care of this, come out if you hear anything suspicious.”

“Alright,” Daryl nods, taking his bow off his back and cradling it against his arm.

He leans up against a tree while their boots crunch through sticks and leaves, leaving him alone at the edge of the forest. After a few moments, he hears someone cocking a gun- presumably Joe- and something being tossed onto the ground. Joe starts spewing some bullshit about New Year’s eve or something but Daryl can hardly hear so he sneaks through the clearing, peeks around the back of the huge pickup truck that’s in the way and sees- no.

_No._

Joe is counting down ominously and he has no time to think so he steps out and tries not to sound completely desperate when he says, “don’t,” but he _is_ desperate, he’s so fucking desperate because he can’t lose this again. He’d rather die this time.

“Hold up,” he says, feeling his heart drop to his stomach, his nerves shorting out under his skin.

Rick looks at him, Daryl sees it in his peripheral vision, but he can’t look into his eyes because he won’t be able to do this if he does.

“You’re stopping me on eight, Daryl,” Joe says, and Daryl doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence because every fiber of his being is _screaming_ for him to put him down like a dog, his blood running hot through his veins and sending adrenaline to every tissue in his body, his fingers twitching with the need to pull the trigger.

The logical part of his brain steps in and forces him to calm way the hell down, focus in on a solution that doesn’t involve a bullet being lodged in Rick’s brain.

“Say your piece, Daryl,” Joe says, calm as ever, completely unaware of the unadulterated bloodlust that Daryl has for him in this moment.

“These people,” he says, willing his voice not to shake, “you’re gonna let ‘em go. These are good people.”

“Now, I think Lou would disagree with you on that. I’ll, of course, have to speak for him and all because your _friend_ here,” he tilts the gun towards Rick’s temple and fear shoots all the way through to Daryl’s toes, “strangled him in the bathroom.”

“You want blood. I get it.” He drops his crossbow, no second thoughts necessary. If Joe killing him gives Rick and Michonne a moment’s advantage, he’ll take the bullet. “Take it from me.”

“This man killed our friend. You say he’s good people,” Joe says incredulously, eyes wide, “see, now, that right there…is a lie.”

 _Fuck_ , Daryl thinks. This is backfiring fast.

He’s scrambling to come up with something to say when one of the guys jams the butt of his gun against Daryl’s ribs, knocks him flat against the ground. Distantly, he hears Rick scream, ‘ _NO!’_ but he can’t see anything except dirt and the boots being shoved in his face.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, _Should have killed these low-life fucks when I had the chance to, and now everyone is gonna die because of me._

Someone throws him against the truck, the metal crunching against his spine, and he stops fighting back altogether. Someone else’s fist cracks against his jaw, forcing him to turn his head, and he gets a good look at Rick right as he’s _tearing Joe’s throat out with his teeth._

Joe’s skin rips clean apart, blood and flesh spewing out of Rick’s mouth in coagulated chunks. It feels like it’s happening in slow motion, the blood melting out of the hole in Joe’s neck while he falls to his knees next to Rick. The guys beating on him pause long enough for Daryl to turn on them and take them to the ground with the help of Michonne, who shoots them when they come her way.

When all the men are on the ground, you can hear the tree branches creaking with the pull of the wind in the silence. The air is so thick with spilled blood that it tastes like copper.

Daryl allows himself to look at Rick, feels pulled to him like the tide by the moon, and sees the scarlet-red blood stuck to his beard, the feral, primal look in his eyes.

It scares the shit out of him that the first thing he feels when he looks at Rick, before anything else, is _want._

 

They don’t get a moment alone until a few days later when Rick pulls him aside and asks about Beth. Daryl admits that she was lost on his watch, that he feels guilty as hell for letting her get away. Daryl probably would have spit in her direction in the old world, but he had actually grown to respect the kid.

“Shit happens,” Rick says, voice quiet and tired, heavy with loss.

“I guess,” Daryl responds. It’s the best he can do.

They spend a lot of time just sitting in each other’s company, backs against the trunk of a tree while everyone else sleeps. Their only point of contact is where their knees are touching until Rick curls his fingers between the gaps of Daryl’s tentatively, like he’s trying not to scare a timid animal away.

“Thought I’d never see you again,” he says sincerely. “Missed you.”

Daryl’s heart jumps against his ribcage. He pointedly looks away from Rick, staring down at the dirt. He doesn’t say anything back, he _can’t_ , but he lets their palms press together, threads his fingers through Rick’s fully, and it feels like the most intimate thing he’s ever done.

 

 

When they connect up with the rest of the group, they find a decent little log cabin that some rich bastard probably owned as a summer home- the thing has 5 different bedrooms and backs right up to a lake. It’s ransacked, but there’s so much space in there that it would be stupid not to take it. They can’t live on the road forever, not with this many people and the baby, so they fix it up and secure a barrier with some trees that they cut down and shave into a sharp point.

Time is hard to find, especially alone time, even in the apocalypse. You would think the end of the world would prompt complete isolation, but Daryl has never been around this many people in his life, not even before the dead started walking. There’s always something to be fixed, always a complaint to be made, always drama- some days, he just wants to lock himself in his room and stay in there for days. It’s not that he doesn’t love everyone in the group, it’s just his nature to be alone, to burrow up in the quiet spaces of life.

Luckily, Rick gets that. When people start to ask too much of Daryl, Rick always steps in and takes over. Sometimes, he even pretends to give Daryl some bullshit order so that he can get away and Rick looks like the bad guy instead of him and Daryl is _so_ grateful for it. So grateful, in fact, that he remembers something that Rick had once suggested to him and walks to the corner store down the street by himself to find it.

 

 

It’s a while before he actually gets to surprise Rick with what he found. They each have their own rooms, and there’s no way in hell they would be able to come up with an excuse for Rick to sleep in the same bed as Daryl without explicitly stating what’s actually going on between them.

He finds a scrap of paper and a pencil and writes: “ _MEET IN MY ROOM WHEN NOT SUSPICIOUS. NIGHT TIME.”_

While everyone is eating dinner, he slips it into Rick’s back pocket and hopes for the best.

He waits up in his room for what feels like forever after dinner, steadily doubting himself more and more as the time passes. They don’t have clocks anymore, not really (and if they did, they wouldn’t matter), but it feels past midnight. The weight of the night is tangible and thick, and the silence in the room is deafening.

He’s god-awful nervous at the thought of Rick actually rejecting his gift, antsy as hell, and he jumps a little when someone turns the knob on his door slow enough to avoid the creak of it.

“Daryl?” Rick’s voice cuts through the darkness.

“Yeah, come in.”

They’re both whispering, careful to avoid the hair-trigger of everyone’s sleep-wake cycle (which is sensitive as hell thanks to the end of the world). Rick shuts the door behind him, holding the knob until the lock clicks in place.

“What did you want to talk about?”

Daryl blushes. He hadn’t actually planned what he was gonna say in advance. “Um,” he says, glancing over to the plastic bag next to his bed. “That.”

Rick raises his eyebrow quizzically, but picks up the bag nevertheless. He opens it and looks in, pawing at the inside of it to pull out its contents. His face reads confusion for a half a second before realization takes over and his eyes get huge.

“Oh,” he says, turning the package over in his hands. “Oh, god. Daryl, you-yeah?” He finishes, gesturing toward the box enthusiastically but carefully, always so careful when he’s talking to Daryl.

“Remembered you sayin’ something about that. I found it at the store. But we don’t have to, I mean they could be useful otherwise around the house. Actually, now that I think of it, it’s kind of a waste that we’re _not_ using them to fix something up so-“

“ _Daryl_.” Rick cuts him off, sliding down onto the bed. “Quiet. You’re gonna wake up everyone in the house.”

His voice is just this side of stern, and it’s close enough to an order that Daryl shuts up quick, nodding his head obediently. When Rick sees Daryl’s reaction, he evens out his voice and scoots closer to him.

“I wanna use them. But you’re not just doing this for me, right?”

Daryl laughs. “Absolutely not.”

Rick’s eyes get dark. He hesitates for a moment and then rips open the package and lays out the zip ties next to each other on the bed, lets his thumb nail click over the ridges of them.

“Okay,” he whispers, looking up at Daryl, “Stand up. Hands behind your back.”

Daryl tries not to look totally desperate when he gets up quickly and walks over to the foot of the bed, stands with his back facing Rick and his wrists crossed at the bone behind him.

Rick doesn’t say anything, instead reaches out and presses his thumbs into the tendons of Daryl’s wrists, pushing them until they give under his weight.

“Relax,” he soothes, pulling back and rubbing his thumbs in circles over the imprints he just made. “Tell me if it gets too tight.”

Daryl drops his shoulders when he feels Rick let go of his arms and wills himself to calm down.

He never fucked anyone like this. Every fuck he’s ever had has been quick, desperate, in his car or hidden under docks. Guys would get rough with him when he asked for it, but it was the kind of rough that was sharp all over with no care to curve it out. He never knew that sex could be like this- hard enough but still cutting deep, heavy-handed but careful. Daryl would never turn his back toward anyone other than Rick, drop his head to his chest and trust him not to lift his shirt high enough to see-

“How’s this?” Rick half-whispers, lips pressed against the back of Daryl’s neck.

He shudders with the feel of his breath moving over his skin, pulls his wrists apart to test the give of the zip ties. There is no give.

“Good,” he says. “It’s good.”

“Good,” Rick echoes, his voice dropping lower. “How do you wanna do this?”

 _I want you to fuck me_ , Daryl thinks, but he doesn’t have the guts to take his clothes off yet. But with his back turned to Rick, he gets the courage to say, “Wanna blow you. On my knees, but with my back turned to you.”

Rick wraps his hand around the side of his throat, knee-jerk, and exhales against his shoulder like he’s been punched. “Christ. You ever done that before?”

Daryl thinks about heavy knees on concrete and hot summer nights behind gas stations. “A few times.”

Rick nudges the back of his neck with his nose, holding there for a second before he guides Daryl forward gently so that he can get off the bed and spin them around.

Rick has two distinct sides. The gentle side of him is a father and a caretaker- gentle but firm, soft around the edges when he has to be.

But his other side. His other side is dangerous. Feral. Controlling. The only time he mixes the two sides of himself seems to be when he’s with Daryl.

He backs Daryl up against the bed and cups his palm around the back of his head, pulls him forward so he can kiss him. Daryl knows he always tastes like an ashtray, but Rick never seems to mind. He curls their tongues together slow and easy, scratching his fingers gently against Daryl’s skull. He forgets his hands are tied together, not used to the feeling, and tips forward a little so their chests are pressing together. It’s not intentional, but Rick takes it that way and breathes a little heavier against his mouth, kisses him a little harder than before.

Eventually he pulls back, his mouth sliding against Daryl’s jaw, and says, “On your knees.”

Daryl melts to the floor like butter and doesn’t even try to be sexy about it, scoots himself around so that his back is pressed against Rick’s shins.

“Jesus,” Rick breathes, mostly to himself, and Daryl hears him take off his belt and throw it behind him onto the bed. He reaches down and cups his jaw in his palm, gentle as ever. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Daryl confirms. “Like I said, not made of porcelain.”

Rick’s hold on his jaw tightens, slipping back into his dominant role once Daryl gives confirmation. “No more talking,” he decides, voice lower than before.

Daryl takes in a shivery breath and swallows thickly, his throat clicking with it. He nods.

“You look sweet like this,” he says after a moment, and Daryl can hear him pushing his jeans down past his thighs, the sound of skin-on-skin when he gets his cock out and strokes it slow and lazy behind him. Being on his knees like this, not being able to look at what Rick is doing, makes him feel vulnerable and shivery with anticipation.

“Tip your head back,” Rick says gently, guiding Daryl with the fingers he has under his chin until he’s looking at the ceiling, Rick’s cock huge and heavy above him. He’s gripping it in his right hand, jerking himself off tight and firm while Daryl looks up at him, mouth open and wet. He keeps his hold on Daryl’s jaw and lets precome drip off the tip of his dick into Daryl’s inviting mouth, shivering when Daryl swallows it back on his tongue.

“Fuck,” he grunts, fisting himself, “Daryl, can I just-“

Daryl says nothing because he’s not allowed to, opens his mouth wider as an invitation instead. Rick holds his dick at the root while he guides it into Daryl’s hot mouth, his legs shaking when Daryl tilts his head back further for it.

“ _Christ_ ,” he moans when he bottoms out, his balls pressed right up against Daryl’s nose. “You look so good, you have no idea.”

Daryl has no idea, that’s for sure. Rick’s cock is pretty thick compared to most and he’s almost choking with it, but he’s not because he feels safe enough to relax his throat and let the smooth head slide past his instinct to pull away. He goes a little insane when his bottom lip touches Rick’s belly, curls his tongue tighter around him on accident with how raw and filthy he feels like this.

“Oh, fuck,” Rick grunts, cups his palm over Daryl’s throat, trips his hips forward a little to feel the pull of his cock there and moans with the clicking noise it makes. “Fuckin’ take it, c’mon,” he urges, frantic, pulling back a little and leaving Daryl’s throat empty then dicking forward again, feeling it slide back under his palm slick and tight and hot. “Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” he moans, wrecked, not even thinking about what’s coming out of his mouth, “That’s so good.”

Daryl wishes he could pull off to get his mouth on Rick’s balls, jerk him off while he worships him that way, but this is _Rick’s_ show. As it is, he sits back on his heels, keeps his mouth held open even though he feels saliva running down his chin and tears streaking down his cheeks from trying not to choke on it. Rick keeps rubbing his hand over his jaw and throat, trying to get a feel for the way Daryl’s stretched out on his cock.

His dick is warm and thick and Daryl’s jaw is aching something awful, but every time he tries to pulls his wrists apart, he’s reminded of the ties and feels like his insides are melting in the best way. He gags a little when he gets over-zealous and tries to push his tongue harder against his dick, and Rick must really like that because he makes a little shocked noise above him and pulls out, jerks himself off quick and frantic, panting and using his thumb to hold Daryl’s mouth open like he wants it-

And when he finally comes, it’s all over his mouth and cheeks and chin, his fingers of his other hand tangled tight in Daryl’s hair while he moans and shudders and strokes himself until there’s nothing left.

Daryl sits back on his heels and tips his head upwards, licks the come that’s drooling off Rick’s cock into his mouth, lets him guide the tip past his lips a few more times just to come down, and swallows as much as he can without the use of his hands. His knees hurt and his neck and jaw are aching, but he’s so fucking hard, feels like his nerves are humming under his skin every time Rick touches him.

“Christ,” Rick pants, runs his hand through Daryl’s hair, “Jesus, Daryl. I hurt you?”

Daryl shakes his head. He’s not supposed to talk and it would feel wrong if he did.

“Okay,” Rick says, still petting his hair, “alright. Get up here, c’mon-“

He steps back to make room for Daryl to stand up and Daryl tries to, he really does, but his legs are shaking so bad that all he can manage is to get one foot planted on the ground, tipping his chin toward his chest when he can’t get any farther.

“I can’t-“ he starts, embarrassed for breaking his silence, but Rick is already there to steady him with his hands on his shoulders, pulling him up gently by his armpits and guiding him to sit on the bed.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, stroking his thumb over Daryl’s cheek, pressing their lips together sweetly, reaching back to tug on the binds around his wrists. “You want these off?”

Daryl shakes his head frantically. He definitely doesn’t want them off. He feels like he’s high on something, like he’s floating off the bed and he wouldn’t even care if Rick left him here like this, high and dry, still tied up helplessly. The thought makes his cock jerk in his pants, makes him close his eyes and breathe in deep and slow through his nose.

“What do you need?” Rick asks, getting right up in his face and pushing him down against the bed, kissing over his cheeks and chin and throat, cupping his dick over his jeans. “Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you.”

Daryl swallows, his throat clicking. “I can get myself off, it’s- you don’t need to.”

“Hell no.” Rick drags his thumb down and unzips his pants and it’s too much, too fast.

“Stop!” He says suddenly, surprising himself when it comes out of his mouth. He can’t- no one’s ever done this for _him_ , he’s always gotten himself off, and he doesn’t know what to do now that Rick is offering.

Rick pulls his hand back quick, letting it hover over his lower stomach, but doesn’t move any farther away from him.

“It’s just-“ Daryl starts, fumbling to explain himself without sounding like damaged goods. “You don’t have to do that. I know you probably don’t want to, and it doesn’t bother me none. I can go without.”

Rick looks at him with an expression that could probably be described best as pity, and yeah, this is exactly how Daryl figured it would go. Rick will awkwardly apologize, realized how fucked up Daryl is, and leave.

He ducks his head and kisses his temple, soft and sweet. And that’s- not what he expected to happen.

“Daryl,” Rick murmurs, sliding down to kiss him on the mouth. “You’re wrong. Dead wrong. I wanna do this.” Daryl shudders involuntarily. “Let me take care of you for once,” Rick drawls, touching his belly gently, testing the waters. “And I really mean it. But if you don’t want me to, I’ll leave you alone.”

Daryl pauses. _Yes_ , he thinks.

“I’m tired,” he says. Rick’s face falls. “It’s not you, man, I’m just beat. Probably wouldn’t even be able to keep it up.”

Rick nods, his eyebrows furrowed. Daryl feels like scum. “It’s alright, I get that. Um, I’ll just-“ he starts, awkwardly fumbling around in his pocket for his knife and reaching around to cut Daryl’s binds when he finds it.

“Thanks,” Daryl nods, rubbing his sore wrists. And that’s that.

 

 

When Rick finally sees his scars for the first time, it’s his own fault. They’re fresh off knocking out a pack of walkers, adrenaline kicking through his veins, and he says, “Gonna hit the shower.” He shoots Rick a dirty look in front of the whole damn group when he says it. It’s risky, but it feels good.

Rick gives it a few before he follows him because he’s smart like that, and Daryl’s already undressed and in the shower by the time he makes his way up there. He hears him coming and turns around, opens the curtain to welcome him in.

“Water’s cold as fuck,” he warns before pulling Rick in for a filthy kiss, all tongues and wandering hands.

Rick pulls back. “Gotta shut the curtain,” he says. Daryl drops to his knees and grips Rick’s thighs with both hands while he pulls the shower curtain closed, and Rick makes a pleased sound, pushes his thumb into Daryl’s mouth. “You don’t have to,” he says, but Daryl pulls off of his thumb, noses along his half-hard cock, cups his balls in his right palm.

“Jeez,” Rick breathes. He stiffens up under Daryl’s attention, uses his hand to push Daryl’s wet hair off his face. “You’re not too tired?”

Daryl hums, tongues the length of his dick before he swallows him down and the weight of it in his mouth feels so _right_ that he moans a little, can’t help himself.

Rick suddenly tugs on his hair, says, “C’mere,” and Daryl pushes himself to his feet, lets Rick crowd him against the cold, tile wall.

Rick gets his hand around his throat and holds it there while he kisses him, and Daryl gasps into his mouth at the pressure. He’s so turned on he can’t see straight, his cock curving up toward his belly, sliding wetly against Rick’s every time he moves. He could come just like this, he thinks, but he wants-

“Rick,” he breathes, voice strained, “fuck me.”

Rick pulls back, lets up on his grip on his throat. “Yeah?”

Daryl swallows. “Yes. I’ve got-“ he stops, blushes. “Stuff. Under the bed.”

Rick smirks, leans forward to kiss him firm on the mouth. “Okay,” he says, cupping his cheek in his palm, “Okay.”

They make it over to the bed, Daryl trailing behind Rick, and he lets Rick lay him out across the mattress and lick into his mouth while he reaches under the bed.

“I’ll turn over,” Daryl says stupidly, not thinking, “makes it easier.”

“You sure?” Rick asks, “because I can-“

But Daryl has already flipped over onto his stomach and it’s not until Rick stops cold in the middle of his sentence that he realizes exactly what he just did. And suddenly his guts are spilled for everyone to see, everything heavy that weighs on his mind out in the open for inspection.

“ _Christ_ ,” Rick says, voice shaking, “Daryl-“

“Don’t!” Daryl shouts, shocking even himself, turning over onto his back again and pushing Rick away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

Rick sits there with his mouth open, palms up, hands shaking. Daryl tucks a shirt and pants under his arm and leaves.

 

“You okay?” Carol puts down her shovel and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “You seem tense.”

Daryl doesn’t bother to stop digging. “M’fine.” His heart feels like it’s been dropped down into his stomach all day.

“You sure? You can quit digging if you want, I’ll finish up here.”

The offer is tempting. He feels a little bit like throwing up, and maybe going for a smoke. “Said I was fine,” he mumbles, and pushes his shovel into the dirt.

 

He’s not even asleep when Rick crawls into his bed later that night, but he lays stock-still when he wraps himself around his back.

“Daryl,” Rick whispers, tucks his nose against the back of his neck. “You gonna run away?”

Daryl doesn’t say anything, but he relaxes a little, lets himself fit into the curve of Rick’s body.

Rick exhales long and slow, kisses under Daryl’s ear. “You know, you don’t have to explain anything.” His fingers curl against Daryl’s chest. “Not to me. But…if you ever wanted to. If you ever wanted to tell-“ He stops. Daryl can feel his own pulse bounding in his wrist.

“If you ever wanted to tell someone who loves you,” Rick says, voice softer than it’s ever been. Daryl’s stomach flips. “I’m here.”

Daryl turns around, shocked, tears welling up in his eyes. He chokes them back, frustrated, and smashes their mouths together, teeth clicking with the force of it.

“Rick,” he says against his mouth, desperate, “under the bed.”

“You sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Daryl urges, pulling Rick’s hand until it lays on top of his throat. Rick gets with the program quick, putting pressure over his windpipe, controlling, while he reaches for the slick under the bed. Daryl yanks his clothes off in the meantime.

“Let me do it,” he says when Rick puts the slick on the bed. He grabs it and pours some on his fingers carelessly, reaches down and sinks two into himself right off the bat. He likes the stretch.

“Fuck,” Rick groans, watching him with pupils blown. He leans down and uses his thumb to pull on Daryl’s jaw, licks into his mouth while he preps himself as quick as possible, fucks himself on three fingers and calls it a day.

When he pulls his fingers out of himself Rick is right there, pressing his own fingertips against him and moaning when he feels how slick he is there.

“C’mon,” Daryl urges, and Rick gets his dick wet, messy with slick, and pushes all the way into him.

Daryl feels so stuffed full that he almost comes right there, Rick’s cock thick and warm and buried to the hilt inside of him, but he holds off because Rick didn’t tell him he could.

“You’re so tight,” Rick admits through gritted teeth. “Fuck.”

“Rick, please-“ Daryl begs, not knowing what he’s asking for, just wanting _more_ of it.

“Yeah,” Rick breathes, and pushes his knees toward his chest, really gives it to him, the bed shaking with it. He fits his hand around his throat gets the other on Daryl’s cock, says, “you’re so good, Daryl.” Daryl flushes with the praise, whimpering with how close he is to coming already, and Rick kisses him, says, “It’s okay, baby. Come.”

Daryl pretty much whites out, coming all over his belly, muscles tensing up, toes curling against Rick’s sides.

“Fuck,” Rick breathes, eyes wide, surprised at Daryl’s obedience, and pulls out to come all over his stomach.

 

 

The crickets outside are deafeningly loud, and the moon shines pale white through the cracks in the blinds, spills its light over the wood floor. The humidity is almost too much to bear, making Daryl’s fingers swell up with how damp the air is. They’re both still messy with sweat and come and dirt from being outside all day, but neither of them do anything about it.

He stretches across the bed and pulls a cigarette from the pack on the table, lights it with a match. It feels good to pull the smoke into his lungs finally, more cathartic than crying could ever be. He picks at a healing gash on his left thigh that he got trying to hop a fence to pick apples from a tree a few days back.

“You know, Merle didn’t even have a clue,” he says. He pulls at the corner of the scabbed-over cut with his nail and blood beads up underneath it. He doesn’t look over at Rick, but he knows he’s turned toward him, listening.

“He always thought daddy was a good man. And, you know. He wasn’t wrong.” He takes a pull from his cigarette. “He was a good man where it counted. Gave his extra money to the church, opened doors for women. He looked good to anyone looking in.”

He stubs his cigarette out on the tray on top of the bedside table, finally looks over at Rick. He’s facing him on the bed, eyebrows furrowed in concern. Hands lying awkwardly at his sides like he doesn’t know where to put them. Daryl scoots over to his side and lays his head on his chest, and Rick exhales like he was waiting for it, curls his arms around Daryl’s stomach. He doesn’t say anything for a while and Rick kisses the top of his head, rubs his palm over his belly. Daryl sighs, feeling like he could go to sleep just like this. No one makes him feel safe like Rick does.

“He used to always tell me that whatever he did to me would be nothing compared to what the devil does to queers in hell. I believed that, for a long time.”

Rick flinches at the word _queer_ , tightens his hold around his middle like he’s trying to protect him from it. It makes Daryl’s chest clench up so tight that he moves onto his back next to him again and pulls him into a kiss with a hand at the back of his neck.

Rick slides his hand under Daryl’s head and lifts it up toward him, kisses him soft and sweet and slow. “Can I?” He whispers against his mouth, rubbing his thumb over his temple soothingly.

Daryl nods, surges up to kiss him again before turning onto his stomach.

He hears Rick shifting around behind him, the sheets rustling and the bed creaking, and then his fingers skate gently over his back, running in paths that are presumably the ones that his scars take. He hears him exhale shakily, feels him bend down close and press his lips against the middle of his back. It feels like all the nerves there are cooling down, like every ugly thought he’s ever had about the puffy, white lesions are dissipating under Rick’s fingers.

Outside, the crickets chirp furiously. The moon still pools its light at the foot of the bed. “You’re so beautiful,” Rick says sincerely. “The world doesn’t deserve you.”

And for the first time in his life, Daryl is home.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @coldbuckys, if you'd like.


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